


Amygdala

by EuclideanVision



Series: 31 Days of Apex Stories [5]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: 31 Days of Apex (Apex Legends), Apex Legends Quest: The Broken Ghost, CW: Human Trafficking, Day 25 - Fear, Gen, Psamathe, olympus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuclideanVision/pseuds/EuclideanVision
Summary: 31 Days of Apex - Day 25 - FearBloodhound walks in the shadow of the Mount of the Gods.[Set on Psamathe post-Season 5 - before knowledge of how Olympus properly works.]
Series: 31 Days of Apex Stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877185
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Amygdala

Fear is essential. It seems ironic at first - that most primal, ugly thing that stows away at the back of your mind, preying upon your every doubt, your every anxiety…that eldritch experience is your saviour. It is one thing to live in fear, but it is nothing to die without. The end comes for us all, and it is only through our dread of the void that we may come to finally accept it.

Bravery only manifests in the face of fear.

Yet fear can take many faces, and the slums beneath Olympus wore them all. The looming behemoth overhead perpetuated a sense of unease in even the hardiest of the Outlands. None could escape the constant sense of the sky falling; nor the heavy shadow at their feet, and only a select few could avoid the ever-present reminder of the power that the floating city held over them.

But down here, away from the facades of wealth and pomp and glamour; people genuinely lived. Of course they lived in fear, but they truly lived because of it. It is when we cannot bear to lose something that we may conjure the greatest courage. That empty life above required neither of those things. 

The blinking pink neon of tiny shop fronts blazed along the alleyways, desperately trying to emulate the splendour of the haven above; scattering off the many ornate charms that hung from Bloodhound's helmet. Dense aromas from the nearby market stalls penetrated even their damaged senses, their mask filling with the rich scents of cured meats and exotic fruits as their chemical composition was broken down and analysed. 

"The harvest is ripe on this planet. Praise to the Allfather," they smiled contentedly. Only Artur was able to hear them over the racket of the market sellers that echoed down the alleys, but Bloodhound's message was for the Gods, and they were always listening. 

The throng of people washed about Bloodhound as they moved down the alley, parting like waves around the mysterious figure clad in animal skins; a pitch black raven perched atop their shoulder, an axe resting openly at their hip. Some averted their eyes, suspicion drowning their judgement in distrust; while others gawked openly at such an unfamiliar sight. A hunter lost out of time, and an Apex Legend to boot.

A bluster of small children charged raucously past Bloodhound, winding their way through the thick crowd. One fell behind as they caught sight of the hunter, stumbling as their sheer wonder reflected back at them from a set of dark goggles. As Bloodhound's HUD registered an automatic composite of their face; a sharp caw from Artur jolted the child onward, and their choked cries of bewilderment pierced on through the chaos ahead. 

Stroking the neck of their feathered friend, Bloodhound chuckled to themself, "A helpful _gustr_ of victory, Artur. The Gods will watch over them now."

They stopped at a stall decked with wildly coloured fruits; examining a vibrant hanging plant that was speckled with spiked violet berries, the spines of each melding into fluorescent yellow tips. They were beautiful, even in this artificial light. Poisonous in the wrong hands. An elegant compote in the right ones. Everything had its balance. 

The sharp pink glare that permeated the market district was suddenly snuffed out as a dark shadow loomed over Bloodhound, channelling the stifling pressure of Olympus above. The vivid yellow tips of the psamberries flared in the absence of light, holding defiant in the face of terror.

Bloodhound had always truly feared their end, despite their acceptance of the inevitable. The crushing eventuality of those they had called family was forever a stark reminder of what there was to lose in this world. But it was in standing to face that end, and to welcome Vallhalla beyond, that they would always master their fear. 

The shadow cast by the ominous figure detailed their assailant as much larger than Bloodhound, but the variety of figures and somatic details that churned across their HUD would never have been able to tell them the man's intent. 

But Bloodhound could hear it in his step.

"No man prowls, _andskoti,"_ they announced clearly, pulling their hands away from the glowing plant, "Such behaviour is best left to the beasts."

The distortion from their ventilator lent their voice an uncanny quality, like they were not of any known world. Fear was not only a reliable shield; it was an effective weapon. The subtle vibrations of the hulking man's shadow spoke endless tales of anger, regret, envy and more. They had struck a nerve; and more importantly, there was definitely a nerve waiting to be struck. 

The strike itself was clumsy, telegraphed wildly and slow to impact; easy to duck under. Likely from a street fighter, aiming for the high-profile fatal-cage brawls hosted by the rich and powerful of Olympus. Probably consigned to a life of failure and disillusion as they suffered financial uncertainty on top of brutal injury. Or perhaps they were a thief; using their imposing size to bully those even less fortunate out of their precious belongings. 

Either way, no-one strikes in such a manner so as to honour the battle itself, nor are their knuckles clad in such fresh sores and filthy bandages below the rusting spiked dusters. None who truly honoured the fight itself would have gone down so easily either. It was no battle, it was mere _slatra._

Bloodhound palmed gnarled coins into the trembling vendor's hands as the mugger lay twitching on the ground; a greenish foam ebbing from their slackened jaw. A single raw psamberry would be enough to put the fear of the Gods into the poor soul, but it shouldn't kill him. 

A tiny runic charm bounced off the small stack of coins in the seller's hands, and he scrambled frantically to keep hold of it all. 

"He is not in the Gods' hands yet," Bloodhound stated calmly as the aged man gathered himself. Artur landed on their outstretched arm, and they raised the raven to hop carefully back up on their shoulder. The vine's worth of psamberries was neatly packed into one of their many pouches, and they held a shining, rounded pearapple studded with spices. 

The old vendor watched in amazement as the hunter turned away, a pristine blade appearing in their free hand as if from thin air. Bloodhound cut fine slices from the sweet pearapple as they walked on, feeding them slowly to Artur; taking the spice seeds to nestle in their mask, chewing on one from time to time as they embraced the stark tang.

The floral notes diffusing through their ventilator became all the more welcome as they approached the musty fumes of the industrial district; thick plumes of smoke disappearing into the dense shadows above, the harsh pink glare of the markets deepening to a warm orange glow. Neither compared to the glory of the stars, but the novelty was not lost on Bloodhound. Both the old ways and the new shared much in the ways of both beauty and practicality. 

The further they ventured into the bowels of the twisting machinery, an oily smoke began to cut through the perfume of their ventilator, and the very atmosphere itself clung about them like a weighted net. The regular whirring and clanging of vast machines set an earthly resonance throughout the district, augmenting the gruff rumble of stout workmen to contrast the bubbling dynamics of the markets. For all they lacked, the people of this place showed they could still stand tall regardless. 

Sweat ran in torrents down the cheeks of many an entranced engineer, the tools in their hands blurring and bending with the flow of their meticulous craft; the sturdy arms and rippling backs of their labourers desperately struggling to reign in the convulsions of the giant devices above. 

A spritely gunsmith sat at her open worktable, deftly honing the barrel alignment of a heavy rifle; various smaller components strewn chaotically, yet precisely across the tabletop. Her scarred hands moved with such finesse along the skeleton of the powerful weapon, that Bloodhound almost wept. Her focus held firm still as Artur glided over to the table's edge; their talons clacking finely on the rigid metal, their head tilting inquisitively up at her. 

She smiled softly at the company of her new observer, but her attention refused to waver yet, even as a piercing scream cut through the low hum of the factories and workshops. Her smile faded, withdrawing back into the shell of her work. Bloodhound hoped she would one day find the courage to use the glorious weapons she sculpted so gracefully; for the depth of the fear she knew was evident. 

But they had no time to console her. There were others in more immediate need, and by the sound of their desperate cries, they were not even old enough to dream of defending themselves. No amount of courage could do a child any good in an environment such as this. Even the ferocious wilderness and crumbling ruins of World's Edge could be tamed; as could the fear of them, but humans tended to be more insidious by nature. 

As their auditory unit isolated the frequency of the child's calls, Bloodhound initiated a comparative analysis with nothing but a lightning glance. They needed no tool but their own ears to tell them that the cries were currently rounding the outer wall of the building, heading into the side street - but the analytics confirmed it was a voice that they had already heard once this very day. The old ways had certainly informed the new when it came to their tracking helm - the clues that the natural world provided could be examined from many forensic vantage points, but the animals themselves never truly changed. 

The Hunt never changed. 

Bloodhound tapped the sonic device on their wrist as the frantic shrieking began to move rapidly away from them. The outer wall of the workshop was penetrated by an expanding orange sheen, and the ghostly outlines of dozens of people illuminated in their goggles.

Only two were running. 

"The Eye of the Allfather blesses me with sight. May they also watch over you, _felagi_ fighter," the hunter breathed; churning swirling clouds of dust behind them as they sprinted after the fleeing forms ahead. The gunsmith finally looked on as the raven and their master took flight; afraid of what could happen to the odd stranger, but confident that worse would befall their mark before the day was out.

As the residual images faded from Bloodhound's vision, they turned through a pair of enormous warehouse doors and skidded out into the side street; Artur taking to the shaded sky above. Their prey was out of sight just ahead, but only a foolish hunter kept their eye on such a simple path. The pair of distinct footprints imprinted heavily on the soft earth; the industrial district needing the fresh soil to dissipate the excess heat built up by their goliath machines and thrumming charge towers. 

So they were not just larger men, but they were probably armed; running in surprising synchronicity, with no smaller prints to be seen. Carrying the child between them. Experienced. Not exactly something Bloodhound wished to refer to as skilled. If they had intended to harm the child then their lack of skill had been proven; and so the tracker instead feared the worst.

A sudden divergence in the gait of the left kidnapper solidified their dread. _Traffickers._ Their captive was unharmed, and so able at least to struggle against their bonds. They must have knocked the smaller of the two off-balance as they squirmed. And so Bloodhound found a ray of sunlight in the shadow of Olympus, and turned courage against their doubts.

There was still time. 

"Fight _rikr_ , young one. Show them your bravery."

They did not even need their technologically augmented senses to track down such clumsy prey, but they remained eternally grateful for the digitised precautions they had taken against the _óséður_ all those years ago. Their facial recognition software pinged a torrent of alerts as a familiar bluster of children charged out of an adjoining alley, and right into Bloodhound's path. 

_Two_ of their number were missing. Above the cacophony of shrieking voices and stifled crying that now surrounded them, Bloodhound was able to find yet more faith in the face of such despair.

"There is little time, young ones. I need your help," they soothed. Galaxies of starry eyes gazed up at them, and the clamour subsided, "Now tell me. Where is your shieldmaiden?"

Their companion who had stumbled before Bloodhound was the tallest of the group by a fair margin. Her long, wild, red hair had been tied back aggressively with tangles of shining metal wire, and she had been quick to pick up the chase after their chance encounter. 

She was no longer with them; nor was the smallest. 

However, Bloodhound found they could not suppress a grin from forming under their mask, as the group all turned in unison to look back down the alleyway. A single, light set of prints set off along another path, and the hunter lunged forth to follow it; their grin settling into focused determination.

The girl had made incredible ground in the short time it took to track her down; the winding buildings and alleys of the slums as familiar to her as the snowy forests of World's Edge were to a young hound. She had somehow produced an extending crowbar, using its hook to scramble over the low-topped terraces that ran parallel to the markets ahead. 

Jumping from atop a final shack down into the pale blue light of the streets, she fell straight into the anticipating arms of Bloodhound. The icy fear that wracked her entire body shook her into a fierce rage, and she flailed savagely in their grasp; the crowbar clanging to the ground. 

Suddenly, she found herself on her feet. Unbound. Unharmed. The masked stranger from earlier in the markets was holding the crowbar out to her like a peace offering. 

"I am proud of you, _rikr_ maiden. You know the Hunt well, and you strive for your family's safety." Their voice was unearthly; distorted behind layers of subterfuge and augmentation, but it was unmistakably kind. Noone had spoken to her like that for far too long, and it showed. The girl hurriedly snatched back her weapon, clutching tightly at the one thing that it seemed she had ever been able to count on. 

Bloodhound knew the sour look that followed all too well as they finally cautioned her, "But now, you must return to your flock, young shepherd." 

They had thrown those same daggers at Uncle Artur over a Goliath horn many years ago. A Goliath horn, and their honour; whatever that was worth now. 

"How will you find them?" snapped the girl's fierce reply. 

"I found you, did I not? Such lumbering beasts are no hunt compared to a clever, little fox-hound such as yourself." 

The awe that bloomed across the young girl's face to replace such abject anxiety was utterly inspiring. Bloodhound wished against all else that they did not have to say what came next. 

"But if you were to catch them...or worse yet; if they were to catch you, young fox-cub, I would fear for your life."

Disappointment crushed her expression as if Olympus itself had fallen from the sky above them. The forever-oppressive sensation must have been unbearable, and the constant pressures of this environment seemed to drag even the youngest to the brink.

Bloodhound stalked past her, ready to pick up the trail of the kidnappers once more, but as they broke into a run, they could not help but hear the soft patter of swift feet start up once more behind them. She had an astounding warrior's spirit; the Fox Maiden of the Crowbar. She struck out fiercely to embrace whatever end would come, and she would bend it to her own will. 

Bloodhound turned suddenly to block the girl's path, and she instinctively raised her mighty weapon to shield herself. The immense weight of this place hung heavily on the backs of even the bravest warriors - she would not regain her trust so easily. Bloodhound's hand came to gently rest on her shoulder, and her tension slowly faded with the warmth. 

"The _gustr_ of the hunt seems to draw you to me, young cub," they sighed. Fear was a powerful ally in many ways, but companionship would always shine far and beyond. This was no time for a test, and there was no cause to place any more doubt on her already laden shoulders.

"I cannot stop you, and I cannot let you go. The Gods would not forgive it. So then, little fox - would you run with the hound?" 

They would carry the weight. Showing courage in the face of fear could help others to find their own.

From atop Bloodhound's broad shoulders, the Fox Maiden of the Crowbar gazed longingly to the horizon that stretched out ahead of them as they ran; her faithful weapon tied against her back. The towering buildings that once challenged her diminuitive frame now danced in and out of her lofty view, and the dark shadow that loomed overhead seemed to vanish forever into the cool evening glow. With such a brave and valiant warrior at her side, she could know no fear. They would not steal her little brother away, not up to that awful place. 

Her grip on Bloodhound's helmet faltered as she realised that that fear would never leave her, even while riding such a noble steed. Olympus always hung overhead. Bloodhound felt her shift as the familiar pair of heavy prints fell back into their path, knowing full well the myriad of emotions that cascaded over the young girl. It was time to repay the inspiration she had gifted them. 

"Hold on tight, _felagi_ warrior," they warned, "The Gods bless us both this day. You show great strength in returning us to the trail." Their hands left her shins briefly to clasp forward in fervent prayer, but their pace would never slow. 

"Now let me show you, why I am _Blóðhundr!"_

As their hands pulled apart, a thunderous crack burst through the light blue air, the thrum resounding off the steel frames of the terraces in a triumphant battle call. Arcs of white-hot energy wound gracefully along their arms, and adrenaline injectors fired sharply into crucial pressure points. Synthetic muscle fibers fired pulsing shocks with every subtle motion, surging them ever forward; the Beast of the Hunt charging within them. Processors lining the inside of their helm whirred noisily; overclocking to absorb all the raw information possible. The stench of stale alcohol suddenly rose to taint the sanguine metallic scents of the terraces with an acidic bite, but the distinctive musk of fear and cruelty dripped menacingly ahead. 

A single spice seed bounced in their mask, hanging in the air as if it yearned to fly. 

Bloodhound's hands had not yet fallen. They had not taken a single step. Their focus darted between sunken valleys of footprints in the dust and the fine etchings of scuff marks on concrete, to the ringing of six cat claws tapping near-simultaneously onto a thin sheet roof; the neuro-stimulant gas distilled from psamberries thrusting their mind to the very edges of perception, their HUD a torrent of endless nuances of forgotten moments, countless stories narrated by the world itself all vying desperately for their attention. 

They were with the Gods now, just for this moment. Weightless. Formless. Unending.

The Gates of Valhalla swung open wide before them, as their vision blurred from vivid turquoise to sharp grey, and the soaring eternity snapped into the Hunt.

The terraces _howled_ about them as Bloodhound accelerated forward, and the familiar delectable aromas of the market wafted over them as if caught on the breeze, yet they had already found themselves back deep within its dense foray. The Fox Maiden could not tell the horizon from the floor at this point; the urban jungle she had fought so hard to survive in churning into a swarm of vivid lights and dynamic noise, but she trusted the path of her raven-winged mount.

Bloodhound’s body rippled around hunched basket carriers and rushed delivery cyclists as they wound swiftly through the lurid pink alleys; the Fox Maiden held fast to their shoulders, their vision a sleek canvas of grey spotted with the striking scarlet of the Trail of the Hunt. They knew the prints well by now, but time was of the essence, and the path was freshly disturbed in places. They gave thanks to their HUD cross-referencing and highlighting each and every sickeningly familiar step as they sprinted on - allowing them to dedicate true focus to the hunt. To the Allfather. To alleviating the fears of a warrior too young to truly know battle.

A freshly broken shop sign turned them round a final corner; flying sparks, colourful awnings and luminous neon giving way to sheer dark metal and cold spotlights, as they passed out of the markets into one of the several anchoring districts - monstrous elevated platforms holding Olympus in place above the slums, connected by enormous humming cables transporting power and goods between the two divided settlements.

Bloodhound’s heart pounded furiously in their chest as the trail seemed to disappear at the bottom of a service elevator; giant metal girders towering all around them. Entrance to the anchoring platforms was somewhat exclusive, and regularly monitored; if you could reach the top. If only the rest of the slums could receive a fraction of such investment and attention. The countdown estimations for the hunter's physical and technical augments averaged at around a few seconds before they would dissipate or require returning to standard systems - and the elevator refused to budge.

“One last hurdle, _felagi_ fighter,” they chimed to the Maiden, refusing to miss a step. Every second counted here, and they were proud to feel the girl slip her legs from their shoulders, sliding down to rest against their back; arms clasped tight about the hunter’s neck. Her legs wound securely around their waist just as Bloodhound grasped the central pillar that held up the towering elevator shaft.

The final surge of the Beast swept them swiftly upwards, Bloodhound's every hand-hold clutched firmly in their powerful grip. As the world returned to its usual colour, they came to rest, hanging from the lip of the shaft; scanning the latticed platform that stretched ahead of them, wary of the empty abyss behind them.

Their muscles tensed fiercely as they felt the girl suddenly shift up their back, diving for the ledge. But they held strong; watching curiously as she lurched forward into a crouched sprint; bare feet padding tenderly across the cold metal, and pride threatened to spill out of the hunter as she disappeared seamlessly into the yawning shadows. They hadn't even seen her draw her trusty weapon, but they had somehow known that she would, and knew that she had. If the Vixen was too young to truly know battle, then she knew how to fight far too well. 

It was unfortunate, yet impressive. Hopefully her skills would only have to be put to the test within the hunt, not the battle itself. They were grateful for the darkness of the encroaching night, and for once, even for the extra shadow that hung menacingly overhead. 

Pulling themself up silently, Bloodhound glided gently across the access bay towards conjoined rows of prefabricated warehouses. A giant tower was planted in the centre of the expansive platform, drilled deep into the solid earth below; anchoring the enormous intertwining cables that snaked up to the gargantuan leviathan haunting the skies. A crackling hum from the slums' many charge towers ran throughout the facility that dared to call itself a district, but otherwise it was deathly quiet, and it wouldn't be long before that had to change. 

Bloodhound stalked quietly along the rows of warehouses; any tracks impossible to follow with the light and terrain as they were, even via the collated data stored in their helm. They were running out of time, and were completely out of clues. 

But the Gods were with them. 

A muted caw drifted delicately on the ambience of the vibrating atmosphere; black feathers hiding their secret weapon deep in the darkness, soaring between the spotlights. Their trusted ally in the hunt. Faithful Artur.

The sound of clacking raven claws atop a thin sheet roof finally marked out their target. Bloodhound reached for their wrist device once more, and the nearest row of warehouses was bathed in a deep, penetrating, orange glow. 

There were only three figures to be seen, glowing fiercely through the walls of the final warehouse. One knelt, head hung low. The two that stood, turned. 

Bloodhound recognised the motion well, and it signalled the road _til Valhall_ . Yet still, they felt the familiar icy grip of terror rise chillingly up their spine, threatening to turn their back on their honour. But it was not a fear of battle that frosted their nerve, and the fear of being too late had dissipated with their revealing aura. Bloodhound was scared that they were too _early._

These men would not be the guiding hands of the operation. Far from it. Lucky to even be a pair of snatching claws it might seem. Even if they were to complete the hunt, would this tragedy not just occur all over again? Would the dreaded world serpent not just forever consume its own tail? 

Kicking open the access hatch to the cavernous metal capsule; their axe swinging into their open hand, Bloodhound thought of Vixen. To lose such a _rikr_ warrior to the anguish of a stolen sibling would be an affront to the Gods, and to her, and to their honour. They had set out initially just to rescue the poor bound child kneeling before them, so if their actions could also gift courage to a _felagi_ fighter, then they would gladly finish this hunt. The rest would have to come later, no matter how insurmountable the walls of the castle in the sky proved to be. 

"Sooo!? An Apex Legend eh? The famous Bluth Hoondr! Don't you have better things to be doing than babysitting unwanted runts?" the larger man growled, the bandana tied across his mouth concealing his vicious sneer. His absurdly wide frame was flanked by a pair of gigantic arms, coated liberally in wild splashes of colour, augmented at the shoulder with cybernetic pistons, and lined with barbed dermal piercings. 

"Yeah, we're just doing honest work, we are. For the hiiigh and mighty of Olympus," their lanky companion snickered, as their studded eyepatch tightened against a web of throbbing green veins; a stolen Stim bouncing frantically between their shaking hands. 

Both men stood to face their end. That much was commendable. How they stood for face fear was another matter, and how they could stand to look at their own twisted faces in the mirror was a question entirely unto itself. Neither of them even tried to hide their ugly business. 

"No matter," Bloodhound retorted, "No Mount of vanity shall ever even dream to reach the divine realm of the Gods."

The hunter's earlier musings flooded back into the forefront of their mind, as they spotted the shorter man reaching for the back of his belt loop. Their footprints _were_ too deep. They _were_ armed. And they were not prepared to play any more games. 

"Take this one up your pipe to your precious Gods then, ya freak!" the addict yelled furiously; pulling a freshly built Wingman from behind their back. So they had even been granted the call to battle, and with such fearsome and expensive weaponry. Bloodhound would answer that call, and show them what they thought of their false gods upon the mountain. 

The first shot went wide, and the addict was far too impatient by nature. The entire heavy cylinder had emptied into the container's sheet walls before the goliath had even managed to draw his weapons. This made Bloodhound's first target clear as day, and in their hurried dash forward, they turned on the larger man. 

A pair of Mozambique shotgun pistols levelled steadily at their head, but they pressed onwards; their sheer courage driving a primal fear into the goliath. Both initial shots flew harmlessly to either side of Bloodhound's helm, as the man's enormous arms tensed involuntarily at the sudden inconceivable aggression of an outgunned assailant, and he was put on the back foot. 

The pistol in his right hand clanged loudly from his grasp as Bloodhound's axe rose up to meet it from below. They leant their body weight into the follow-through of the swing, bringing their shoulder up to turn their frame to the side. The third shot sailed past Bloodhound's exposed back, and the momentum of their attack carried them into a locked position inside the large man's centre of gravity; their front foot planting solidly into the reverberating metal floor beneath them. 

A simple shove with their leading shoulder set the giant off balance, and they hopped forward to close the growing gap, swiping the axe up and out in a fierce backhand. The cut found purchase, but the blade had bounced off the cybernetic shoulder augments buried deep in the flesh; glittering sparks and deep, shining blood falling to set the line between them on the dusty floor. 

The familiar weighty clink of a Wingman cylinder spun Bloodhound about; their free hand pulling a knife from a sheath on their chest. The blade found a new home in the chest of the addict, as a single shot rang out; punching another fresh hole into the warehouse wall.

This proved the immense stopping power of the hand cannon, for the bullet tore through Bloodhound's left shoulder long before it even had a shot at the wall. They had endured worse in most every match in the Games, but abject terror gripped them here now as it never could have in the ring. If they lost in the arena, they only lost their pride. Nothing more. If they lost here, they still may not even lose their life; the Syndicate could employ all manner of strange techniques to keep the famous Bloodhound as a stalwart Legend of the Apex Games. 

But if they lost now, she lost too. She had much more to lose, and ever more to fear for it. 

Luckily, their time spent on the hunt and in the Games had sharpened their already stellar aim to interstellar precision. The knife had pierced into the intercostal muscle, yet not deep enough to damage the lung; keeping the target alive, but making it incredibly painful to breathe. The fear of death would ebb in slowly. These men would answer for their crimes. The Gods willed it. 

But the Gods were fickle beings indeed. The addict's last shot had been lucky at best, but it soon became evident that his resolve was a far more impressive trait than his aim. He stood firm, yet deadly still; clutching the sleek, powerful weapon in one trembling hand, the other continuing to twitch around the vial of his precious Stim. 

As Bloodhound recoiled from their wound, axe still in hand; the addict plunged the syringe into his leg, and let out a long, hissing sigh. The large man behind them groaned in pain as he began to rise ominously from the floor; the piston in his injured arm spewing wisps of crimson steam about them both. 

The addict brought his free hand up to steady his pistol, as the empty Stim tumbled to the floor, each moment decaying into nothingness as the next simply refused to take its place. 

The Beast was on the charge.

Their legs pounding forward; vision refining to simple greys and stark reds, Bloodhound watched on in awe as the scarlet outline of Vixen slunk out from the shadows behind a stack of large crates. They had spotted her sneak her way inside during the initial brawl, but they had not noticed her get so close. They had little time to reach the horrifying realisation of what the crates were meant to contain, before the Fox Maiden's crowbar swung fiercely into the addict's shin. 

The thudding crack rang throughout the warehouse like the many gunshots that had preceded it, Bloodhound's dilated senses mutating the vibrations into the rapturous call of battlehorns from on high. They took it as their divine signal; to trust in the Allfather, and this _rikr felagi_ fighter. 

The broken man crumpled to the ground, his jagged screams biting into the metal ceiling. Seeing the gun fall away from his grasp, the hunter whirled about once more, the Beast surging fully upon them. The sight that met them gave them great pause, even in their heightened state. 

Artur flapped ferociously in the exposed, ruined face of the goliath man; his stout, mechanical arms far too slow and stilted in their jerky motions to ever catch such a graceful unkindness. Their talons raked great hews of flesh from the man's visage, and both shrieked incessantly. 

The goliath tore desperately forward, a plume of feathers bursting over his blood-soaked shoulders. Artur soared away from the chaos up to the supporting rafters above, their beak coated in a thick crimson. They had left their _felagi_ fighter to finish _their_ fight. 

"How cruel, Artur," Bloodhound feigned, slamming their elbow into the welcoming jaw of the charging, blinded bull. His size certainly belied his endurance, however, as he swiftly rebounded back at the hunter with a powerful lariat. 

Despite the obvious telegraphing, this man had the power behind him to make such flaws near-irrelevant. It would be dangerous for this one to get anywhere near Vixen, and so the fear of a prolonged fight drove Bloodhound to push for a killing blow. Ducking the fatal swing had been one thing, but how to truly topple such a giant beast? 

Another blow rained in from above, the goliath's guard crossing seamlessly from one strike into the next. His form was surprisingly admirable, even in his weakened and enraged state. But Bloodhound was better. That was just one part of what made them an Apex Legend. 

A deft side shuffle saw the man's heavy blow fall on thin air, Bloodhound's torso bobbing and weaving atop their solid base. The motion had allowed them to land a precise kidney jab on the outside step of the giant man's thrust, and his own unsupported momentum threw him off-balance once more. The uppercut he threw blindly afterwards dishonoured the bravery he had shown in continuing to fight, but it was wild, clipping Bloodhound's chin. 

As they fell back from the glancing blow, a left straight rushed in to meet them. The artificial muscle fibers that lined their organic counterparts tensed and strained together against the overbearing mass that suddenly slammed into them. But Bloodhound knew no fear of harm in that moment, instead accepting the fearsome attack to propel themself backwards beyond the reach of the devastating right hook they could see was about to follow. 

The air between them thrummed as the goliath man's fist swung short, and Bloodhound rebounded off their back foot, ducking low, axe firmly in their grasp. Gliding under the goliath man's surging left cross, they drove one sharp, horizontal chop into his exposed gut, and turned to bring another slice up across the vulnerable back heel. The beast finally dropped to its knees.

But the beast had been man all along. Clutching at one of the loose Mozambiques strewn about the floor, slowly succumbing to their multitude of wounds, he made one final, desperate turn towards the cold face of fear; only to be met with cold steel instead. One of Bloodhound's many knives suddenly protruded from the trunk of his massive arm, and the gun spasmed from his grip.

Bloodhound looked deep into the goliath man's eyes, the tiny capillaries bursting rapidly below the surface; a mere indication of the kind of suffering and fear he currently faced. It was unfortunate. Both that he had come to such a line of work, and that he would never truly understand the terror he had himself inflicted. 

And Bloodhound would not get to teach him. As the goliath's arm fell limp at his side, a stifled cry came from across the room, and they jolted their gaze away from the beast brought low. The addict was back on his feet, and given the state of one of his legs, that had taken quite some effort. He clasped Vixen tight, an arm snaked around her tender neck, the knife torn from his chest and pressed close to her throat. She had seemingly managed to free her brother after subduing the addict, but taking down such a monster had proven to require far more than she could know. 

"Well then! Looky what I got 'ere, Predator!" His gnarled fingernails dug deep into her shoulder, "How bouts a trade eh? You leave me an' the big fella be, and the little lady won't get hurt, whadda ya say?"

Bloodhound steadied themself.

"Oh? I fear that you are mistaken," they replied calmly, holding back their own doubts that spat with furious venom. "I am not here for the children, you know. I am merely here for you. These filthy orphans mean nothing to me."

The stunned confusion on the addict's face gave Bloodhound the opening they needed. They threw their arms open wide, and dropped their axe to the ground, where it stuck fast. Fear was certainly an effective weapon, and one's own bravery could augment it even further. They knelt beside the axe, arms inviting the oncoming onslaught, "Come then, _andskoti_ . Find victory, and _slatra._ Show me your bravery. I promise I shall show you no fear."

The addict; convulsing violently with pain, confusion and frustration, prised a feral roar from his quaking lips. He threw Vixen to the cold, metal ground, and lunged ferociously for the mysterious hunter. The axe was back in Bloodhound's hand before any of them could have even noticed, and it entered the addict's skull with such force that he didn't have time to experience that either. 

"I truly feared you would not believe me," Bloodhound breathed quietly, striding past the pair of corpses. Vixen's head sprung up from the sheer floor, her eyes filled with shimmering tears. A trickle of blood ran from her brow as her concerned, yet light-headed brother stumbled to her aid. Bloodhound knelt at her side, delicately offering the _rikr_ weapon that she had proven herself more than worthy to wield.

"I am sorry, _mitt felagi,_ courageous Vixen. Most of all, I truly feared you _would_ believe me."

Whether in the loving arms of family, or with sturdy crowbar in hand; they would still forever live in fear. But at least they would live. For fear is essential, as it is what pushes us to be brave.

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was wild. I had basically no idea what was going to happen beyond "BH saves a kidnapped child" & it all just fell out of me over about three solid days of frantic word spewing. I loved getting to create some semblance of a working world alongside the story & adding in a spur of the moment mini-OC in Vixen was cool too!  
> The theme was always going to be fun one for me, and hopefully it's thoroughly baked into the story xD  
> I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing it :) <3


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